Taking Fire

“I’ve seen a lot of red-haired women in our area. Green and blue eyes. Fair skin,” he continued. “And you fit that model.”

“I could be Irish,” she teased, now uncomfortable beneath his intense scrutiny.

“No way. At least,” he amended lightly, “in this province we’re in.”

“I’m not giving you any information, Mike.”

“And,” he went on, ignoring her statement, “the women and men in this area are much taller than the other tribes in other provinces. You’re about an inch shorter than I am, and I’m five foot eleven inches tall.”

Khat said nothing. He was on a mission of discovery, and she could see it in the tenacious look in his gold eyes. “I need to get something to eat before we leave.” She unwound from her position on the floor, feeling his unrelenting inspection.

Following her with his gaze, Mike felt tension rising in Khat due to his interrogation of her. He sensed he’d gotten close to the truth about her but he wasn’t going to gloat about it. The more he questioned her, the more he saw fear deep in the recesses of Khat’s eyes. And that delicious, full mouth of hers had thinned, as if a defensive reaction. Why? His gut told him it had to do with the scars across her long, beautiful back and shoulders.

She brought back some dried beef jerky and handed him some. “I’m sure the first thing you will do once you land at Camp Bravo is call your wife. And then your parents. They will breathe a sigh of relief and be glad to hear from you.”

“I don’t have a wife,” he said, watching her sit down near his feet, long legs crossed. He saw surprise in her widening eyes.

“Surely, a special woman, then?” Khat couldn’t conceive of this ruggedly good-looking man, who obviously was intelligent, not being in a relationship. That simply wasn’t possible.

“I don’t have anyone.” So what did he see in Khat’s eyes? Surprise? Shock? Desire? Happiness? Mike decided to turn the tables on her as he chewed the salty beef. “What about you, Khat? Do you have a husband?”

Heat swept up from her neck and into her face. “No.”

“Someone here in Afghanistan that you love?” He could think of a hundred men who would stand in line to get her. She suddenly became nervous, licking her lower lip. Shy with him, unable to hold his gaze.

“No one,” she answered softly. “My line of work is too dangerous.” That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth. No man would consider her whole. Her back and shoulders were nothing but scars, ridges and were ugly. Men did not want a scarred woman with a shameful past. Her father, who had been born in this province, once he had seen her scars for the first time, had cried. He had told her mother that no man would ever consider her for marriage. He cried for the grandchildren he would never hold in his arms. He was shamed by her scars.

Khat had felt even more wounded by her father’s patriarchal Afghan attitude, but she was at a place in her life that his words had cut even deeper than the lashes she had received during interrogation by the Taliban. And when she had survived and healed physically, she’d come back here four years ago. Her father said she was a dead woman walking. He was right.

Mike felt Khat leave, her thoughts elsewhere, her eyes growing clouded. Sensing pain or suffering around her, he said, “You’re right, in our business, we can have a short life. It’s hell on anyone who loves us. That’s why I’m not in a serious relationship. I wouldn’t want someone worried about me all the time over here.”

Pensive, Khat forced herself to eat because she knew her body needed the nutrition and energy. “My parents are very unhappy about what I do. They don’t understand it. Or me.”

“That’s too bad. You’re doing important but dangerous undercover work.” The hurt in her face moved Mike. He wanted to open his arm and ask her to come and lean against him. Khat needed to be held. It was so clear in her darkening eyes. Her mouth was pursed, as if holding back unknown pain and memories.

If one of her parents was Afghan, it was probably her father. He would have made the decision to move the family to the States, not the woman. And Afghan males were patriarchal as hell, superprotective of their daughters, wanting only two things from them: being a virgin upon their wedding day and giving them grandchildren to carry on their family lineage. He imagined if his thinking was accurate, Khat was seen as a misfit as a woman to her father. And it would have put a lot of pressure on her to live up to her father’s expectations of her, versus what she wanted to do with her life as an individual. Which was to become a Marine Corps sniper.

Khat wanted to move away from her painful past. “Your name? Michael? That is one of the archangels of heaven. Did your parents name you that because they knew you’d be a warrior someday?”

“My father named me after my grandfather. He fought in tribal wars that helped bring the House of Saud to power a long time ago. He was a warrior.” Mike gave her a wry look. “I think my father was hoping I’d become like him. Instead of picking up a scalpel, I picked up the sword.”

“Just as in the Koran, Michael the archangel is the one who battles, protects and defends.”

“I do my share of battling,” Mike agreed. “And I am protective of those I love.” His voice became gritty. “And I’m a sucker for women and children who need protection.”

Her skin riffled with the darkness of his voice. “Don’t look at me. I can protect myself.” Khat would never let on that she’d never felt as safe or shielded as the past two days with Mike’s presence in her life.

“It’s my nature,” he said seriously, seeing the haunted look come to her eyes. Something told him Khat rarely received any protection from anyone. She’d learned a long time ago to take care of herself and never expected help from another quarter. What the hell had happened to her to make her think like that? He shouldn’t feel so damned elated to discover she wasn’t married or wasn’t in a relationship presently.

“Your last name, is spelled T-A-R-I-K?”

Now why would she want to know that? “In the old country it was spelled T-A-R-I-Q, but when my father came to the States, he changed it to make it easier for his patients to pronounce and spell.”

“It’s my understanding the name means one who uses a hammer?” She lifted her chin and stared at him.

“Guilty on all counts,” Mike said, giving her a slow smile. “There’s various meanings to it. One is it means a bright, shining star that leads the way.”

“You are a leader. There is no question.”

“I try to be,” Mike said. “Another, the name of the Morning Star, Venus.”

“I think you’ve taken two of the three definitions to heart,” Khat said lightly.

“What? I’m not a star?” He chuckled. “I did love astronomy when I was a kid. My dad even bought me a small telescope so I could look at the stars.”

“But that lost out to becoming a warrior? Your first name, Michael, combined with your last name pushes you toward being a man of action. Someone who can use the sword.”

“You’re right.” He lost his smile. “If I had one wish before I left you, it is to know your full first name. I know Khat is your nickname.”

Feeling her heart move beneath his humble request, Khat saw the sincerity in his narrowing eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Besides, my name does not have the glory and power that yours does.” She managed a small smile, appreciating him for who he was: a very brave SEAL. The joke was, her Pashtun name, Khatereh, simply meant, “memory.” And so it had been. There were branding memories in her mind about her scarred flesh and fractured soul she could never forget. And she was never the same after her capture. So much for memory.

She rose. “It’s time to go.”

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